Little Sister

This happens to be a story about Simon and Clara, but it could easily have been Ian. Both the boys dote on her.

It was late in the day, and I was spent. Ian had just driven his tricycle off the edge of the back deck into the holly bush (he was mostly unharmed), and I was trying to wrap up Clara’s really messy diaper. I pried the “not-toys” out of Clara’s hand, which left her wailing (and, I’m sad to say, I was not feeling too sympathetic about it at that moment).

Simon started jumping up and down, hands stiff at his side like a toy soldier, saying, “Clara! Look! Play with me! I’m a pencil! I’m a pencil, Clara!”

My brief confusion turned to delight when I remembered that the not-toys I had just confiscated from Clara were colored pencils.

Clara Morehead, I thought, You are one lucky little sister. I hope you know it.